


Them and Us

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Abbie returns on Christmas morning and she has learned some things about the Witnesses while she was away.





	1. Chapter 1

She returned on Christmas morning. Crane awoke alone, his heart heavy with longing and loss, as always. Intending to spend this Christmas in the Archives, continuing his research into how to retrieve his Lieutenant from the Underworld.

He wills himself out of Abbie's bed, swings his feet to the floor of Abbie's room, and trudges down the hall into Abbie's kitchen, where he puts the kettle on. His motions are automatic, with no real purpose or flair. Kettle goes under tap. Tap turns on. Tap turns off. Kettle goes on stove. Burner is switched on.

Tasks completed with all the grace and care of a robot. He doesn't even know why he bothers making actual tea. Food and drink have no flavor. Pleasant pastimes seem pointless. Things he previously found amusing or engaging now hold no interest for him.

He shuffles to the living room. There are no festive holiday decorations. He got as far as locating the boxes in the basement, but could not bring himself to carry them up and decorate.

He had so looked forward to going out and selecting a tree with her.

There is no tree because there was no Abbie.

He is just about to sit on the couch and wait for his water to boil when something catches his eye.

There is someone on the porch. Their silhouette is familiar. Too familiar.

He jumps to his feet and runs to the door. It is the first action he has made in weeks with any motivation behind it. Apart from research.

The door is swiftly unlocked and flies open. Crane stumbles out onto the porch, heedless of the cold wood beneath his bare feet.

"Abbie," he breathes, blinking back tears. He longs to pull her into his arms and never let go, but he stands, frozen in shock.

She is dressed just as she was when she left them a month ago. Her hair looks the same. She looks up at him, and her expression keeps his feet planted. Her eyes are the only thing that indicate she has been away.

"Haunted" isn't quite the correct word. Her eyes have always been expressive, indicating a wisdom deeper than her years. They are still bright and beautiful, but he can tell she has learned some things. Has seen some things. She says nothing.

His heart feels like it has stopped. "Do you not remember me?" he asks, almost whispering, fingers twitching in panic. _Oh God, what if this is the price she had to pay for returning?_

She looks at him for what feels like a very long time. "Yes. I do remember you," she says. "Crane."

He sees her breath as she whispers his name and is reminded of the cold seeping into the soles of his feet. "Yes, yes… come inside and get warm," he says, his voice shaking. He offers her a trembling hand, knowing it is his turn to be the strong one. Knowing he _can_ be, because his strength has returned to him in the form of _her_.

She takes it, and her fingers are like ice. "Thank you," she says. He leads her inside and closes the door behind them.

"Lieutenant, I…" he trails off, not even knowing where to begin. A thousand questions form and die on his tongue as he stares at her, his hands dithering. He still itches to hold her, but her hesitant and slightly confused behavior holds him back. He doesn't want to overwhelm her. Instead, he reaches for her leather jacket. "May I?" he finally asks.

"Thank you," she repeats, allowing him to remove her coat. She seems a bit puzzled and a lot dazed.

"Do you know how you got here?" he asks, guiding her to the couch.

"No," she answers. "Everything is a bit foggy." She sits and he tucks a blanket around her. "I… I think it's more important for me to remember my… my life." She looks up at him. "Things are slowly coming back. This is my house. I know you. I know I have a sister," she remarks.

"Yes, Miss Jenny… Oh! I must tell her you have returned!" he exclaims, glancing at the time. It is only 6:40, but he calls her anyway. She doesn't answer, but he doesn't leave a voicemail. He texts her and then tries Joe's phone, which goes straight to voicemail. Crane frowns and lightly tosses his phone on the table. "They are probably sleeping and Master Corbin's phone appears to be off," he mutters.

"'Sallright," Abbie says. "They?"

"Miss Jenny and Joe Corbin," he explains. "You… you remember Joe?"

She nods. "I remember. Just… the way you said it sounded like they are together, wherever they are," she says.

"Yes, they are… romantically involved now," he says. "You are beginning to shiver," he comments. He bends down to remove her cold boots for her, then tucks her feet up beside her, taking care that they are covered by the blanket.

The kettle whistles. Abbie jumps.

"Tea. It will help warm you," Crane says, rushing to the kitchen, glad he has heated enough water for two cups but knowing if he didn't have enough he would give it all to her.

"Ichabod?" she calls.

He nearly drops the mug in his hand. She never calls him by his given name. Still, he looks out from the kitchen. "Yes?"

"Is there any…" she closes her eyes, thinking. "Cocoa? I think that's what I want."

"I believe so," he answers, going in search of the convenient little packets with their tiny freeze-dried marshmallows that do nothing except immediately melt. He finds them and grabs two from the box.

He quickly prepares their drinks and returns, handing her the one containing cocoa. "Double strength, the way you like it," he says, sitting beside her and boldly pulling her cold feet into his lap before tucking the blanket around them again.

She gives him a small smile. "What day is it?" she asks, sipping the cocoa.

Shades of the final chapter of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ fly through his brain for a moment before he answers, "Christmas Day. You have returned to me – to _us_ – on Christmas, like a wonderful gift," he answers, his voice growing thick at the end as his tears start fresh.

"Oh," she replies. "I wonder if that means something."

"Possibly," he agrees. "Abbie, are… are you…?"

"I think I'm okay," she says. "I don't remember much of what actually happened… maybe it will come back to me with time. I don't even know if I _want_ to remember." She closes her eyes. "But there's a lot I have learned." She opens them and looks at him. _Really_ looks at him, her dark eyes boring into him in a way that feels more intimate than anything he's ever experienced. "I _know_ things now, Crane. Things I can't un-know. About me. You. _Us._ "

"You don't have to tell…"

"Yes, I do. I have to tell you. I'm not sure why, but I know I have to tell you." She sips her cocoa, then pulls the blanket tighter around her with her other hand.

"You do not need to tell me now, then," he allows. "Rest a bit. Allow yourself to re-acclimate."

She nods. "I want to take a shower and I want to sleep," she says, setting her mostly-empty mug on a coaster. She moves her feet out of his lap and onto the floor.

"Of course," he says with a nod. He sets his mug down as well and stands.

She rises and moves the blanket so it is around her shoulders, then looks up at him. She frees one hand and lifts it to his cheek, her small fingers burrowing into his beard. "Crane…" It is just a whisper.

Her touch is the opening he needs, and he pulls her against him, wrapping her in a tight hug that engulfs her. He feels her gripping him just as strongly, feels the blanket slither to the floor behind her. "I missed you most desperately, Abbie." He whispers the admission as tears pour from his eyes and land on the top of her head. "I was a shell of—"

"Shh," she gently hushes, hugging him even tighter. "I know," she whispers. "I know."

xXx

Crane hovered nearby while she showered, afraid that something would happen and Abbie would be sucked down the drain and back into the underworld.

Jenny called while Abbie was showering, and Crane answered to hear the younger Mills sister's nearly-unintelligible voice as she attempted to speak while she was sobbing. When Abbie emerged from her understandably very long shower, Jenny had calmed down enough to speak.

Until she heard her sister's voice.

The sisters talked on the phone for a while and Crane sat nearby, watching Abbie the entire time. Watching how her slipper-covered foot swung as it dangled over her knee. Watching the folds of her fuzzy robe where it covered the various angles and curves of her body. Watching with strange fascination as her hair gradually dried into tight spirals rather than the smooth, loose waves to which he was accustomed. Watching her lips as she spoke, her eyes, her hands, drinking her in, relishing her presence. Her existence.

Silently vowing to never take her for granted ever again.

Abbie glances up and sees him studying her. "No… don't take this the wrong way or anything, but can you wait until this afternoon?" A pause. "I need to sleep. No, I didn't. You don't down there. Time passes differently, but there is no sleeping in Hell." She chuckles with very little humor. "Yeah, I guess that's why it's Hell." She reaches over and takes Crane's hand. "He is. I'll call you later. As soon as I wake up, okay?"

"What am I?" Crane asks when Abbie puts her phone down.

"Keeping a close eye on me," she says. "Jenny told me she made you promise."

He nods. "She did. I don't imagine she was happy to be made to wait to see you."

"She understands," she answers, squeezing his hand and standing. She goes to her dresser and opens a drawer. "Wrong one," she mutters, then tries another. She pulls out some pajamas. "The shower helped a lot, but I'm still not all here," she says, and he's not sure if she's speaking to him or herself.

"I will step outside while you dress," he says, then goes out, closing the door behind him. He is still in his pajamas as well, thinking he would dress while she slept.

A few minutes later, she opens the door. She is clad in a t-shirt and fleece pants and her hair is secured under a scarf. "Why does my bed look like it has been slept in?" she asks, stepping aside, indicating he should enter.

"Because I have been sleeping in it," he answers, knowing there is no point in claiming otherwise.

She blinks twice, then answers, "Okay," and turns towards the bed.

"Sleep well, Lieutenant," he says, intending to leave her to her rest.

"Will you stay?" she asks. Her voice is surprisingly small, and when he turns back, she looks very vulnerable. Fragile. Similar to how she looked when she and Jenny saw their mother's ghost at Tarrytown. "I need you to stay right now," she whispers.

"Of course," he answers. He doesn't bother to hide his relief at getting to remain with her.

She climbs into bed and looks expectantly up at him until he understands. She doesn't just want him to stay, she wants him to stay _with_ her. To keep a close eye on her, as he had promised Jenny.

The impropriety of sharing her bed doesn't even occur to him. Impropriety can be hanged for all he cares right now.

He slides into her bed and she immediately curls into him. He automatically wraps his arms around her, holding her close. He inhales, taking in her familiar scent. Relishing it. Some tears slip from his eyes again as she sighs, completely relaxing in his embrace.

However, to his surprise, she doesn't immediately sleep.

"We have been around nearly since time began," she starts, speaking quietly, drawing strength from his presence. "Not _us_ us, but Witnesses. But still us in some form."

"Reincarnation," he supplies.

"In a way. I mean, yeah, we keep getting reborn, but unlike most people – if reincarnation is a part of their beliefs, that is – unlike most people, the Witnesses are meant to know about it. Like… remember. That's why I have to tell you."

"I understand," he says, his hand idly rubbing her back. "Please continue."

"There are always two. Always made up of opposites. Man-woman, black-white…" she pauses, thinking. "Tall and short," she chuckles. "You were raised in a family of nobility, wealthy, with parents who loved you, and I was a poor orphan. You're from the 1700s; I'm from this time." She pauses a moment. "Of course that last one may be unique to us." She sighs. "But it's intentional. All of it."

"Yin and yang," he comments. "Contrary yet complimentary forces, opposites, but completing one another."

She nods against his shoulder. "And together, we are stronger than we are separately. Better."

"I can say with some degree of certainty that I have felt incomplete this last month," he quietly admits. "I was missing my other half."

She nods again and hums her agreement. "Now you know how I felt when you bailed last year," she says, her voice becoming very sleepy.

"I always knew, Abbie," he whispers, unthinkingly bending to kiss the top of her head. "I felt the same. And you know I won't do it again."

She hums again, which he takes as her assent.

"Did you learn anything about… about _who_ we were?" he asks, even though he knows she is on the edge of sleep. His curiosity is piqued. _Did we witness the great flood? Pompeii? The Holocaust?_ Countless horrors throughout history flash through his brain, and he wonders how many of them happened because of their failure or were stopped by their involvement.

"Mmm-mmm," she answers, shaking her head. "Don't know yet," she mumbles. "Won't know until…"

"Until?" he prompts, curious.

"Until we…" she pauses, yawning, "until we… solidify our partnership."

He puzzles over the phrase. Just when he opens his mouth to ask if she can further explain, she speaks again.

"Consummate our bond as Witnesses."

Then, she is asleep, leaving him to ponder the meaning of this last statement.


	2. Chapter 2

After that first day, Abbie has quickly recovered from her ordeal, for the most part. There have been a few moments where Crane has found her standing and staring as though she doesn't know who or where she is or what she should be doing, but only a few. Spending Christmas afternoon and evening with Jenny and Joe helped tremendously (as did sleeping), and Crane has continued to be her rock, steadying her as she returns to herself.

Agent Reynolds has called several times. Abbie keeps telling him she needs time, but in truth, she doesn't know what she wants to do about her employment situation.

She hasn't mentioned anything further to Crane about them needing to "consummate their bond". She said nothing more of it when she woke up after her nap. She didn't say anything about it to Jenny that afternoon nor that evening when she was alone with Crane again.

It has been nearly a week.

Crane doesn't ask. He's afraid to ask.

He is fairly certain about what she meant, and would be lying if he said he had never thought about it prior to her mentioning it. He _is_ a perfectly healthy heterosexual man, after all, and she is a very attractive woman.

But he isn't _completely_ certain.

While he tries not to think about it too much, he decides to search for more information about their predecessors, looking for clues to confirm his suspicions about Abbie's statement. He is willing to settle for just one line of text, one drawing, one _glyph_ indicating the necessity for the Witnesses to have an intimate physical relationship.

The closest he finds one afternoon is an engraving of a tall figure with his arms around a small figure above a word in an ancient language that has no direct translation, but most of the sources he found concur that the closest English word is "consume".

Consume. As in consummate.

Or destroy.

Destroyers.

Witnesses.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath, incredulous.

"What was that?" Abbie asks, having heard the sound but not the words.

"Hm? Oh… merely muttering to myself," he replies. He covers the image with the book in which he found the translation just as she appears at his side.

"What's that, some kind of Rosetta Stone?" she asks, leaning close over his shoulder.

"Something of the sort," Crane replies. He sighs. "I have been trying to determine the meaning of this word." He moves the book just enough to expose the word below the drawing.

Abbie pushes the book the rest of the way, exposing the image. As soon as she sees it, she understands why he was being so evasive. "Another ancient drawing of us, huh?"

"Well, in truth, it is a print of an engraving, but yes," he answers. They both silently stare at the image.

"I'm getting used to it," she says after a minute. "Seeing past forms of us this way."

"I believe you are a step ahead of me in that regard," he replies. He covers the picture up again. Abbie uncovers it.

"What does the word say?" she asks, her voice softer. He feels one of her hands come to rest on his shoulder, then the other.

"Do… do you remember what you said to me on the morning you returned, just before you fell asleep in my arms?" he quietly asks.

"Of course I do," she answers, but doesn't elaborate, wanting to hear his explanation.

He explains what he has learned in slow, halting words, fearful of broaching a topic that he isn't sure if she remembers introducing. She stands behind him the entire time, and he looks down at the books and papers in front of him while he talks. One of her hands begins to absentmindedly toy with his hair, her fingers soothing and enticing at the same time.

She turns her head and rests her cheek on the top of his head, the slight weight comforting to him. "I didn't know how to bring it up again."

"Nor did I," he says with a small chuckle. He reaches up and touches her hand on his shoulder, thinking back to Christmas morning and how nice it felt just to lie there with her in his arms. She slept deeply; he dozed.

They haven't shared a bed since then, though she has come to his room in the middle of the night on several occasions. Surprisingly, _he_ is the one who has been plagued by nightmares since her return. She stays only until he falls asleep again, then returns to her room.

She lifts her head. "Let me see that picture again," she says, and he passes the book to her, a little afraid she's changing the subject. "I… it looks… familiar," she explains, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him.

Abbie stares at the picture. "Yes. I… I saw this…when I was… away." Her fingers trace the lines of the tall man in the engraving, almost as though she is caressing his face. Crane's fingers unconsciously mirror hers on his own face, remembering how her fingers felt that morning. "I was shown a lot of things… a lot of pairs that were…"

"Us," he supplies, self-consciously dropping his hand.

She looks up at him and nods. "Those two were like this," she says, taking his hands and standing. He rises along with her, and she guides his hands to her waist. His hands are warm and so large his fingers nearly touch at her spine with his thumbs still hooked in front. She slides her hands up his chest, lifting her face as they go, until they are on his shoulders. He intently gazes down at her, and they fall into the same intimate connection they shared Christmas morning on the couch. "Your right hand should be higher," she whispers. "Center of my back. Your left stays low, over my spine."

In order to do that, he has to pull her closer, but he complies, powerless to resist even if he wanted to. She is nearly flush against him, and when one small, strong hand moves higher, again threading into his hair, he shudders.

"Sorry," she whispers, but doesn't attempt to pull away.

He doesn't say anything, merely shaking his head just slightly, telling her she does not need to apologize. He doesn't trust himself to speak. His heart is attempting to pound its way out of his chest, beating so hard she must feel it.

Abbie's fingers slide further into his hair. Then her leg wraps around one of his, and something clicks with Crane. He can see the image on the page in his mind, comparing it to how he and the Lieutenant are currently entwined.

He hadn't paid enough attention to the placement of her leg in the engraving. But that is how they are positioned.

"Like this," she repeats, still whispering.

Something clicks in Ichabod's brain. A spark. A key sliding into a lock. A piece fitting into a puzzle. A _memory_. "No," he breathes. "This." He tightens his arms and drops his head. Abbie tilts her chin up and her lips easily find his, meeting in a kiss that now feels long overdue.

His lips expertly move over hers as though he already knows how she likes to be kissed. He feels her tongue against the seam of his mouth and he opens up to her, his right hand sliding up to support her head as he leans into her.

He moans low in the back of his throat, nearly overcome. Images flash behind his eyelids, visions of these two people that were once them but not exactly them, Witnesses from some time long past. Combined with the heady sensation of holding Miss Mills in his arms and indulging in the sweetness of her mouth, Crane's head spins.

"Abbie," he gasps, slowly lifting his head. "Oh, Abbie."

She stares up at him, looking as overwhelmed as he feels. He also notices she also looks surprised.

"What is it, my heart?" he asks, caressing her face. She blinks back sudden tears, and his brow furrows in concern.

"I was afraid…" she answers, dropping her gaze. "I was afraid you didn't want me," she admits. "Everything has been so strange since I got back, that I didn't know…" She sighs. "That could be why I didn't mention it again. Plus I've been weird and you've been… distracted…"

"Abbie," he says, and her eyes snap back up to his. "Since my return from England, there has not been a time when I have _not_ wanted you."

"Oh," she quietly gasps.

He kisses her forehead. "Forgive me for being distracted or distant. I was trying to give you space to re-acclimate. I did not want to overwhelm you with my attention, though all I wished to do was cling to you and never let go." To illustrate his point, he draws her close, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek on her head. "I was also researching the… _relationships_ of the past Witnesses."

She starts laughing into his shirt, easing away some of the intensity surrounding them. "Of course you were," she says, nuzzling his chest for a second before leaning back to look up at him. "It must have been driving you crazy, not knowing exactly what I meant."

He chuckles with her. "You know me well, Lieutenant," he replies. "As well as I know myself, I would say."

She steps back, out of the circle of his arms and looks up at him with a serious expression. "I do. And you know me better than anyone, too," she says. She takes a deep breath, trying not to think about the fact that her path has already been laid out before her, that their partnership has been determined by fate, that she has no _choice_ but to love him. "But are we ready to _really_ know each other?"

Ichabod gazes down at her. "There is only one way to find out." His answer is only reassuring because it lets Abbie know he is just as scared as she is.

xXx

It's awkward. That's one thing Abbie and Crane have never experienced with one another: awkwardness. Even when they first met, they fell into an easy comfort so quickly they scarcely had time to realize they each suddenly had a new Very Best Friend.

It just happened.

Like it was pre-ordained.

"I think that's what's got me hung up," Abbie says, rigidly sitting on the edge of the cushion on one end of the couch. "The whole 'fate' thing… I would like to think I have a choice in something like this… but apparently I don't."

Crane nods from his place as the opposite bookend. "It is somewhat disheartening, to be sure," he agrees, a slight frown on his face. "However, there is a certain beauty to it," he adds his expression lightening.

She looks at him, eyebrow raised, waiting.

He turns towards her, scooting a bit closer. "It sounds like something from a fairy tale… even a legend, if I may." He drops his gaze for a moment, then looks back at her, meeting her eyes. "Lovers born and born again, destined to find one another regardless of… geography, regardless of obstacles, regardless even of conscious _choices_ made contrary to that path. God's wounds, even time itself was not an obstacle for you and I," he says, his voice growing in confidence. "On the surface, yes, the conclusion can easily be drawn that we are merely pieces on some bloody great chess board, moved by an unseen hand, the queen drawing ever closer to capturing the king… _blindsiding_ him with her guile and beauty until he is helplessly caught in a willing checkmate." He pauses, realizing he's moved closer still, and it appears she has shifted nearer to him as well. "But… Abbie…" he reaches for her hand. "What did you feel when you kissed me?"

She closes her eyes, his simple touch calming her unsettled mind a bit. Quite a bit. "I felt… an overwhelming sense of _rightness,_ " she answers. "Like the world suddenly made sense. It was wonderful and… and terrible all at once."

He angles his head, brows furrowed. "Terrible?"

"I just wish I had a choice," she whispers, her eyes closing again.

He understands her desire for autonomy. He understands what it is to have spent much of your life feeling like your decisions have been made for you, as his life has been much the same. It is one of the few things they have in common. While he can see that she knows he gets how she feels, he still must reassure her.

"Abbie," he says, his fingers curling under her chin, and she opens her eyes. "No one has a choice in who they love. What makes you think Miss Jenny and Master Corbin had any choice in their feelings for each other? Or Captain and Mrs. Irving? Just because we are unique in one aspect does not necessarily mean we are unique in others. Do you ever hear people say they 'just knew' their current paramour was 'the one'? Or use the phrase 'we were not meant to be' when describing a love that was lost? How do you suppose that happens if it has not already been determined by f—"

She stops his words with her lips, suddenly kissing him. "Okay, shut up; you've made your point," she murmurs between kisses. She pulls him closer and he comes willingly, so willingly that she finds herself beneath him on the couch in a manner of seconds.

Lost in each other, they barely notice the buzzing of Ichabod's phone in his pocket.

"Crane…" Abbie gasps. "Ichabod… your phone…"

He pulls away with a frustrated grunt, looks at the screen, mutters "Miss Corinth" under his breath, and swipes her into voicemail before lightly tossing his phone onto the coffee table.

He leans back over Abbie, and she puts her hands on his chest. "Wait, wait… that was Zoe?" she asks, scooting up into a sitting position. "You haven't mentioned her since I've been back. I had almost forgotten about her, but… what's going on there?" she asks. "I am not getting into… _this_ …" she gestures between them, "with you if you're still seeing her."

He shakes his head, eyes flitting to the table when his phone buzzes with a text message. "Miss Corinth is quite aware of the fact that she and I will never be more than friends," he quietly says. Abbie doesn't respond beyond slowly nodding, so he continues. "After you left, I was, in Master Corbin's terms, a 'hot mess'. I was despondent without you, Abbie. Miss Corinth didn't understand the depths of my despair… she _couldn't_."

"There is no way she could understand and no way you could explain it to her," she supplies. "Not without completely freaking her out anyway."

Now he nods. "Quite." He runs his hand through his tousled hair, further mussing it. "As the days turned into weeks, her attempts to console me, even cheer me, only succeeded in…" he trails off, hanging his head.

"You yelled at her, didn't you?" Abbie asks. She knows he did. She's been on the receiving end of a few of his frustrated outbursts, and knows how they can come seemingly out of nowhere. But while she is strong enough to withstand them and knows him well enough to understand that his ire is rarely truly directed _outward,_ she can only imagine how the sweet, mousy Zoe fared after being faced with the IED that is Ichabod Crane's temper.

"I did," he admits. "She left in tears. I felt terrible. She did not deserve to be the target of my aggrieved frustration."

"But she forgave you," Abbie says, taking his hand.

"I have Miss Jenny to thank for that, oddly enough. I do not know what she said to Miss Corinth to help her understand, but when next we spoke, she simply told me she would still help me gain my citizenship, but did not think it would be a good idea for the two of us to pursue a relationship beyond simple friendship," he said.

"Ah," Abbie says. _I have a pretty good idea what Jenny probably told her. Will have to ask her about that later._

"On Christmas day, she sent me a text with holiday greetings while you were sleeping. I did not receive it until later, as my phone was down here and I was… with you," he continues. "While you were talking with your sister, I sent her a reply in kind and informed her that you had returned."

"What did she say?" she asks, curious.

"She said she was happy for me that you were back," he responds. "A curious reply, I thought."

"It's an understandable one actually," she says. "She knows she isn't the one who will make you happy, but still wants you to be happy." She smiles and scoots closer to him. "I told you she was a good one." She pauses. "Maybe Jenny and I can find someone better suited…"

Crane laughs. "Master Corbin did tell me that you and your sister do have a bit of a… penchant for matchmaking," he says. When she smiles up at him, he leans down and kisses her.

"Go ahead and read her text," Abbie says, pulling away again.

He sighs and picks up his phone. "She is wishing me a Happy New Year," he says. "It is New Year's Eve, isn't it?" he chuckles, having paid no attention to the date at all.

"Yep," she agrees.

He sends a quick reply, then silences his phone. "I can think of no better way of ringing in the new year than with you in my arms, Abbie," he says. But instead of kissing her, he stands and offers her his hand.

She takes it. "Where are we going?" she asks. She knows, but needs to hear him say it.

"Your bedroom," he says, leading her from the living room. Halfway there, he stops, scoops her into his arms, and carries her the rest of the way, kissing her all the while.

xXx

"Are you hungry, my heart?" Crane asks as he works at removing each article of Abbie's clothing. He does so reverently, with a tenderness Abbie has never experienced before. Not with anyone.

 _What? Dinner? Who needs dinner?_ "You're asking me this _now?_ " she asks, almost laughing. Almost. His fingers have just hooked into the waistband of her panties.

He kneels down and kisses her stomach. "Perhaps we will take our dinner later then," he murmurs, gently lifting her right foot, then her left before he tosses her panties aside. He slowly stands, his eyes trailing appreciatively over her skin.

Abbie is naked before him, standing unashamed. Her knees are slightly wobbly, but it is desire that makes her unsteady, not anxiety. She reaches forward, delving her fingers into his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers and up over his head.

Moments later, he is as bare as she, and they stand facing one another, staring, for a few seconds.

Then he pounces, unable to hold back any longer.

They tumble to the bed, a tangle of limbs, lips sliding, hands grasping. She is under him, then over. He caresses, then squeezes.

As they become more lost in each other, the visions begin. He sees the couple from the engraving first, a large, pale man with a petite, dark woman. Both are dressed in primitive robes, but hers are much finer than his. More images flash behind his eyes, snapshots of their tribulations. Some of the things he sees are beautiful. Some are heartbreaking.

"Ichabod," Abbie gasps, her eyes squeezed shut, small hands grasping lean corded muscles.

"I see it too, Abbie," Crane answers, his lips on her neck, eyes also tightly closed.

When he slides into her, she cries out again, and they see another pair. A short, dark man with a tall, blonde woman. Egyptian and Viking, from the looks of them. Engaged in battle with one another. Making love. The woman, weeping over the body of the man.

"Oh…" The sound is torn from Crane's soul; half ecstasy, half agony. He clings to her as he moves within her, needing her to ground him.

"I've got you…" she whispers.

"I've got _you,"_ he replies, hearing the tremble in her voice.

The next vision has a very young, pale woman and an older dark man. Both wind up dead, and she appears to have been carrying a child. Blood everywhere. Then a young Asian man and an older woman whose skin is so dark it is nearly black. She winds up cradling his lifeless body in her arms.

"They are all… oh… tragic…" Crane gasps, amazed at his ability to continue despite the onslaught in his mind's eye. He has stopped trying to open his eyes. They will not open until they have been shown everything.

"Not all…" Abbie replies as the next pair shimmer to life. They look very similar to the two of them. "Oh, like that…" she absently adds as Crane adjusts his position between her legs to drive deeper. She bends her knees to accommodate him, and moans just as the couple in their vision fall into one another's arms.

These two do not die, but they are still defeated. This vision ends with the pair holding hands, their faces downcast.

"No more, please," Crane begs, referring not to their activity, but to the visions. He feels he is close, but doesn't think he can finish until the visions have done so.

"I think we're close," Abbie says, her hands groping for his face. "Kiss me. Please. I need you to kismmm—"

The vision changes again, and again, and the pairs seem to settle into exclusively those made up of tall, white men and small, black women. Like the universe had been tinkering with the variables to find the combination that works, and settled on this combination as being the correct one. The women look more and more like Abbie, the men gradually become more Crane-like.

"Oh…" Abbie moans, her entire body trembling as the most recent pair fades. She would swear that the woman had to have been an ancestor of Grace Dixon (and therefore, herself), and the man looked so much like Crane it was eerie.

"Abbie," Ichabod brokenly grunts, his hands fumbling their way to her hips, where he firmly grips her, his thrusts powerful enough that he would wonder if her bed will hold up if his mind was clear. "Ah, oh, my swee…" He loses the ability to speak as he finally finds his release.

She screams as her orgasm rolls over her, filling the silence left by his lost words.

Spent, he collapses onto her a few seconds later.

Then everything goes blissfully black.

xXx

"Crane." Abbie blinks her eyes open and squirms beneath him. He's getting heavy. She looks at the clock. 12:33 a.m. Near as she can figure, they've been unconscious for about a half an hour. _Heck of a way to ring in the new year._ "Ichabod." She runs her fingers through his hair.

He stirs, groaning a little, then groaning a lot when he realizes he is not only on top of Abbie but still inside of her as well. "Lieutenant," he rumbles.

"You're heavy," she says, then gasps as he shifts his hips, his shaft beginning to stiffen within her. "Mmm…"

"Perhaps this time we won't be assaulted with images of our past lives," he murmurs against her skin. Then he rolls them, placing her on top.

"Hope not," she replies, lifting up to straddle him. "I don't think I could take any more of that." She rocks her hips. "But I can definitely take more of this."

"Indeed," he agrees, his hands sliding from her hips up to her breasts.

She begins moving, and he keeps his eyes open this time, watching her. She does the same, her eyes locking with his for several long moments.

This time, they are not assaulted by disturbing visions of their past lives.

This time, they are fully aware, fully able to truly enjoy themselves as they take this final step in their partnership as Witnesses.

This time, they simply _are._

When Abbie collapses over Ichabod with a sigh, there is no blacking out. Instead she tucks herself against his side and he pulls the blankets over them so they don't get cold.

"If I had not already made it clear, Abbie, I love you," Ichabod quietly says.

"You had, but it's nice to hear the words," Abbie answers. "Really nice." She kisses his chest, her fingers tracing patterns across his sternum. "I love you, too, Ichabod."

"I am _in_ love with you," he clarifies. "I feel I need to make the distinction, because I have always loved you. It is only over this last year when I realized that love had transformed."

"I knew what you meant," she says, smiling at his need to explain. "But thank you. I… I think I realized how I felt about you when I looked into your eyes just before I went into the tree," she quietly says. "I think that's when I knew how you really felt, too."

He turns and hugs her, holding her so tightly she can scarcely breathe, but she doesn't complain. She needs this. She needs the intensity of his love.

They cling to each other for a few minutes, just holding one another. A few tears slip from their eyes and they are gently wiped away. They know they need to talk about the visions, about what they've learned, but neither is ready yet.

Abbie nuzzles Crane's neck, then thinks of a question.

"You said 'over this last year'," she starts. "When, exactly? And don't say you don't know, because I know you do."

He chuckles then gives her a lingering kiss. "It was when I was in England," he murmurs. He rests his forehead against hers. "I had been there for a fortnight and I saw a young woman in a cafe who bore so strong a resemblance to you that I nearly dropped my teacup."

"What?" she asks, pulling back. "So why didn't you call or anything, you big jerk?"

"The realization hit me quite suddenly. I thought to phone you immediately, but as my finger hovered over the _Send_ button, I noticed the time. I justified my actions by telling myself you would not appreciate a phone call at five a.m. Later I… I lost my nerve. I thought perhaps the time away, the total separation would… exorcise these feelings." He sighs and brushes her hair away from her forehead. "I was convinced there was no possible way a magnificent woman such as yourself could or would ever entertain thoughts of a romantic relationship with a walking museum piece such as myself, so…"

"And here I was thought you didn't want me," Abbie chuckles. "We both have some self-esteem issues apparently." He is just about to speak, but she adds, "I suppose my comments about romance being an unnecessary complication didn't help either…"

"Well yes, there was that," he allows, smiling as he kisses her forehead. She snuggles against him, burrowing into the blankets a bit.

There is a short, heavy silence. "I think…"

"Hmm?"

"I think we should perhaps… rest a while before…"

"Talking about all that stuff we saw?" she finishes, guessing.

"Yes. I do not think I am quite ready to discuss what was revealed to us," he confirms. His head is swimming with information: Names, dates, places, details, details, details. The knowledge that the most recent Witnesses before them consisted of his great grandfather – the man for whom he was named, that cannot be a coincidence – and a woman who must have been Grace Dixon's great grandmother is the most startling.

"Good. Me neither," she says, thinking of all the details that have filled in the blanks, amazed at how she is able to remember, no, _know_ all of it with perfect recall. _This must be what he feels like all the time._ "All those people though," she says, needing some reassurance before they sleep. "Most of them failed. But… while they are previous versions of us, they're still _them_."

"They are not _us_ ," he finishes, giving her a comforting squeeze.

"Exactly," she agrees. The fact that he almost always understands her sends a familiar warmth through her, and she exhales a contented sigh, knowing they can now face anything together.

He reaches over and switches off the lamp on the bedside table, then kisses the top of her head. "Happy New Year, Lieutenant," he softly says.

"Happy New Year, Crane," she answers.

They are asleep in seconds, secure in the arms of their other half.


End file.
